Redline (4 page)
I look up at the night sky through the passenger window. Suddenly I get it: a little taste of what I've been looking for.
Freedom.
It's not just the night air. It's not just that this is our third week of meeting up after work and going for a drive. It's not just the music that surrounds us, teasing us with its sexy thumping hip-hop vibe. It's not just the excitement of riding in this car, on this seat that sends different vibrations through my body depending on what gear we're in. It's not just that Dmitri is sitting beside me, his hand on the gearshift and his eyes on the road. It's not just that every time we go out, we talk like we've known each other all our lives. It's not just that tonight Dmitri told me he spends all his time looking forward to Friday night.
It's all of it.
By the time we pull back into the parking lot of the coffee shop at a quarter past one, I'm breathing heavily. My mouth is open and my breath is short. I've never felt so alive. My senses are finely attuned, ready to pick out the slightest noise or sensation. The night air has sharpened my sight and smell.
Dmitri kills the engine and we unbuckle. Usually he lets me off at my car, but tonight he's parked us over on the other side of the lot. Away from the streetlights. Which is fine by me. He turns and looks at me wordlessly. I see in his eyes what I feel in my own body. He reaches for me, and I'm already there. Our lips meet and we're kissing, hot, breathy, tongues slicking across lips, taking in each other's smell, feeling each other's skin. Tasting, for endless minutes. And then harder, more urgent, biting lips and sucking tongues. I've never kissed like this before. Never been kissed like this before. I can't stop myself. I want more. I want this all night. His kiss is intoxicating. I drink it in, greedy for more of this drug that is Dmitri. I can't get enough. Can't get close enough. I want to crawl inside him, to eat him up, to have this feeling forever.
I climb out of my seat and he grabs my hips, pulling me across the console so I'm sitting astride his lap. He buries his hands in my wind-messed hair, kissing my neck, running his tongue along my jaw, biting me. I am completely unhinged, fully at the mercy of this moment. He runs his hands down my back, touching off a nerve center, and I arch toward him, my head back. His lips graze my bra through my T-shirt, and I press against him, wanting everything, right here, right now. I kiss him, soft, inhaling his smell. He pulls away and looks at me, his eyes dark. Unguarded.
I kiss him again. His hands find my stomach, my sides, my back. They're warm, and they're strong, and they're holding me.
I feel safe.
He kisses me again, gently, and suddenly the tears come, hot and silent and unbidden. They sting my eyes, running like thin, scalded streams down the sides of my cheeks. Dmitri kisses them, too, and the more he touches my face, the more I cry. He doesn't ask with his words, just his eyes. And he sees that I'm okay with it, that I don't need to leave or be alone or be not touched. God, no. His touch is the only thing that's keeping me on earth right now, in this storm of emotion-choked insanity. I cry and he kisses me, and then he pulls me close, into his arms, and stays with me, holding me.
I let goâof all the fear and blame and guilt and sadness, of all these long months, of this nightmare I've been living.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper. The words come out in heavy hiccupping sobs, and I can't stop them. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” And I'm talking to Dmitri, of course I am, but I'm talking to someone else too.
I'm talking to Adrienne.
I let go and lean into Dmitri, and let it run its course, my tongue unable to hold my apologies any longer. He holds my head against his shoulder and strokes my hair. And then he says the words that lift it all from me, even just for a moment.
“I know.”
When my tears have dried into sniffles and I'm making sense again, he pulls me away from him to look at me. I'm a mess. My face is hot and puffy, my eyelashes still wet. His eyes are full of understanding.
“You drive,” he says, “because you're running.” He touches my hair.
And then I tell him.
I can't bear to see Dmitri again.
When I wake up the next morning, the cold light of day brings it all home to me. I feel naked, exposed, like I've shared something I never should have.
It's all still there. Nothing's changed. I've still killed my best friend. And telling someone else about itâ even someone as amazing as Dmitriâ doesn't make it better.
In a way, it makes things worse. Because now all the details that I've kept locked up so tight over these past six months are spread all around for me to examine again. It's like a wound that's been torn open just when the stitches were starting to dissolve.
I hate myself for not staying in control. For letting myself get involved with someone else.
For letting myself care again.
Dmitri messages me a few times the following week. But I can't bring myself to answer him. On Friday, I avoid the coffee shop after work.
Just after nine thirty, Dmitri texts me, wondering where I am. A little while later, another one pings my inbox.
I ignore it. I ignore it, too, when he calls.
To his credit, he gets it, and stops.
Forget driving with him. I'm better off alone, where I can keep my head about me. Much more balanced.
And forget going to the track with him. I don't need some stupid seven-second sprint to feel my escape. Sure, it might be nice to learn how to make my engine work to its fullest potential, or how to drive with more skill. But I prefer the open road.
Instead of heading to the coffee shop, I make a pit stop at 7-Eleven. Diet Coke and a bag of sunflower seeds.
I drive south, toward where the street racers go. I don't know when these guys usually show up, so I've come prepared to spend some time waiting.
I pull over onto a gravel construction road that connects with the highway. They're still building and developing this neighborhood, which is probably why the street racers come here to do their thing. There's not a lot of traffic, but it's still inside the city limits.
I turn off the engine and climb out, taking my music with me. I grab a blanket from inside the trunk and make my way up the steep berm beside me. At the top, I spread the blanket out, plug in my headphones and unscrew the cap on the bottle of Coke. From where I sit, I can see the long black tire streaks on the pavement. My stomach tightens a bit when I think I'm about to watch real street racing.
Dmitri would freak if he knew I was here.
I shiver. Then I shake off the thought.
Whatever. Dmitri's not part of the picture anymore. I try to ignore the little fluttering feeling I get in my belly when I think of him.
I settle in to wait.
They show up around one o'clock. Four cars. Three of them are old-school, like Dmitri's, but not as nice. One car's super flashy. It looks like a newer American model, but I can't really tell from here. The guy who's driving it seems to be some sort of leader. He walks with a swagger, and everybody listens to him. They don't move around much when he talks. That's power.
The races get underway. I watch, grinning, as the cars rip down the highway and back, over and over, with a few breaks in between.
It's during one of those breaks that the powerhouse steps away from the group and starts climbing the hill. It takes me a second to realize he's headed my way. I think about my options. Run? It's dark. I'd trip and fall for sure. Stand my ground? But what if he's dangerous? He's totally breaking the law by racing on the streets. Who's to say he's not going to hurt me?
Maybe he doesn't even know I'm here. Maybe he's climbing up to get a better view or something.
“What are you doing?” The anger in his voice cuts the night air, and I jump.
Nope. Not looking for a better view.
I fight the urge to look around to see if he's talking to someone else. Of course he isn't. Who else is out here but me?
I take a breath and make sure my voice is steady. I need to seem like I'm in control, not worried. “I'm watching you guys,” I say, ignoring my pounding heart. “What else would I be doing up here at two in the morning?”
“Holy shit,” he says. I hear a surprised laugh. “You're a chick!”
I don't reply.
“Why aren't you down at the stage, hanging out with us?” he asks. He comes closer, and I can just make his face out. Dark hair. Strong features.
I shrug, although he probably can't see it. I answer his question with one of my own. “How'd you know I was up here?”
He points far along the berm to my left. “We got a guy on lookout. Want to see the cops before they see us.”
I look toward where he's pointing, but I can't see a thing. “Oh.”
He takes a spot on the blanket next to me. Like he belongs here, in my space. I'm not sure I like sitting with a complete (lawbreaking) stranger, in the middle of the night, in an unpopulated part of town.
But why else did you come here, Jenessa? You know you wanted to meet them sometime.
You know you want to race.
“You want to come down and watch?” he asks. “You should. We like chicks.” He smiles but doesn't look at me. “Don't get many of them around here. And the ones that do come are usually dogs.”
There's something that bugs me about the way he says
chick
. And
dog.
I wonder if he ever refers to girls as anything other than animals.
“I kind of like it up here,” I say.
He looks at me. “What are you afraid of?” he asks.
I meet his gaze. “Nothing, really,” I say.
He smiles again, at me this time. He sticks out his hand. “Cody.”
I look at his hand, then at him. His smile is a bit tight. Different than Dmitri's. Which is all I've been able to think about this past week, damn him. All I want to do is forget about him.
Maybe this guy can help me out.
I take Cody's hand. “Jenessa.”
“You want to race, Jenessa?”
I shrug. “Not really,” I lie. “Just like watching.”
He studies me for a minute. “Bullshit,” he says. “You want to race.”
I can't help but laugh. It's exactly the thing I would say. I look at him. He's sizing me up, a gleam of a challenge in his eyes.
“Maybe I do,” I say. “But maybe I'll just watch.”
Cody jumps to his feet and holds out his hand to pull me up. “Then at least come and watch where there's beer and lawn chairs. It's cold in the wind up here.” He looks around. “And you don't have anything to drink, that I can see.”
I point to my half-finished bottle of Diet Coke.
He shrugs. “If you call that a drink.”
I consider his offer. “All right,” I say. I stand, ignoring his outstretched hand, and draw my jacket around me. He leaves his hand there for a second to make the point that I've been rude in not accepting it.
I pick up my blanket and Diet Coke.
Cody shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets. He leads the way down the hill. “Where's your car?” he asks.
I motion toward the bottom of the hill. “Parked around on the construction road.”
He nods. “Whatcha got?”
“Sorry?”
“Your car, duh,” he says. “What do you drive?”
“A GT 2003,” I say, rankled at his comment. Guess he was getting me back for rejecting him up on the hilltop.
I can't resist. “What do you drive,
duh
?”
He stops so suddenly that I almost bump into him. He turns around to face me. I feel a tiny spiral of fear start to twist in my belly. He looks at me for a moment. Then he smiles, but it doesn't touch his eyes. “You're a tough chick, Jenessa. I like that.”
He points toward where all the cars are lined up in the ditch, just out of sight. A few guys are leaning against an old convertible, talking and laughing. “Mine's the Viper, 2009.”
“Nice,” I say. I mean it. It's a beautiful car.
“You got that right,” he says.
We join the group, and Cody introduces me around. Mike, Mark, Rishad, some guy whose nickname is Bibs. They say hi and give me quick smiles.
Cody bends to take a bottle of beer from a cooler on the ground.
He turns to me and winks. “A mustang and a viper, huh? That's quite the hot little combo. I think they go pretty well together.” He takes my hand. I let him have it, but not before he feels my instinctive reflex to pull away. He pulls me closer, forcing me to take a step toward him. I fight the urge to pull back. Instead I go bold, letting him get close.
Cody looks at me. His eyes are a clear green, beautiful, like the ocean, but they're cool. I look right into them, not flinching. He pulls me a fraction of a step closer. “You
are
a wild little mustang,” he says. I stiffen, my danger radar flicking quickly from yellow to orange.